Iceskating
by Squilf
Summary: Fitzwilliam Darcy admitted to Elizabeth Bennet that he had been childhood friends with George Wickham. Little did she know the details of their relationship, or how complicated it became... Young Darcy and Wickham, mild slash.


**Pride & Prejudice**** & man!ove…**

**Ice Skating**

_In his letter to Elizabeth Bennet, Fitzwilliam Darcy explained his dealing__s with Mr Wickham. He wrote: 'it is many, many years since I began to think of him in a different manner. The vicious propensities – the want of principle… could not escape the observation of a young man nearly the same age as himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments.' Little did Elizabeth know to what circumstances Mr Darcy was referring, and what had taken place between him and Mr Wickham thirteen years previously…_

Fitzwilliam stood by the window, looking out at the lake. It reflected the dull grey sky and the angular branches of the dead trees that surrounded it. It was like a mirror, its surface as smooth as glass. George had written to him last fortnight, telling him all about the lake at Highbury, which had frozen over with the cold. He and his cousins had been ice-skating, which, he assured Fitzwilliam, was the most fun in the world, and made him promise that they should skate on lake at Pemberly if the opportunity arose.

All of George's letters were short and messy, full of inkblots, crossings-out and tales of all the fun he was having with his Aunt and Uncle Taylor and their four children in Highbury. He had left over a month ago, and Fitzwilliam was starting to think that he would never want to come back. He was always telling him about how much fun Edmund and Henry were, and how pretty Emma and Julia looked, that his old friend was starting to feel quite jealous. There was George, surrounded by friends in Highbury, and himself, stuck in Pemberly with no-one but his father and the baby.

Georgiana was four years old by now, but he still thought of her as an infant. She was never any good to play with; George and he had once tried to involve her of a game of bows and arrows, but his father had intervened, scared that his daughter would be impaled. The boys had assured him that she was sitting in front of the target so they could _avoid_ shooting her, but Mr Darcy was not keen on the idea, and took her back to the nursery.

But George was coming home today for Christmas, and Fitzwilliam would have at least one bright prospect to think of when he woke up every morning. Suddenly, the sound of horses' hooves clattered into his ears and he spotted the carriage coming up the drive. He rushed down the stairs, taking two steps at a time, and nearly falling over on the second landing. He narrowly avoided crashing into an old blue vase, and landed on Hannah, one of the maids, instead. Hannah shrieked as he hurtled into her, but he had no time to help her up, and dashed off down the stairs again, mumbling: "I do apologise, Miss Lane."

He reached the ground floor and ran out into the drive, where the carriage was pulling up. Several servants dashed around in a hurry to get Master Wickham's luggage, and one of the footmen opened the carriage door to let him out.

"Good to see you again, Arlass," George greeted him as he exited the carriage.

He turned to Fitzwilliam, and, his face a picture of earnestness, said: "My greetings, Mr Darcy," bowing formally. Fitzwilliam, somewhat thrown by this, returned the bow.

"An- and to you too, Mr Wickham," he stuttered.

George's face opened into a broad smile at Fitzwilliam's sudden uncomfortable formality.

"No, my dear friend," he laughed, "It never looks well for you to be so serious and reserved. You seem far too awkward."

Stepping forward, he took Fitzwilliam by the shoulders and looked up at him, for he was a year younger and not yet quite as tall.

"You will never be so with me, will you?" he asked.

"Never."

George smiled again and took his old friend into an embrace. Fitzwilliam had recently wondered if they should stop doing it now that they were nearly men, but was glad that they hadn't.

"I missed you," he murmured.

George pulled back to look at him again, grinning with his usual mirth.

"Although Edmund and Henry are capital fellows, and Emma and Julia the most handsome girls, I must say I've missed you and your quiet thoughtfulness, Will," he admitted.

"What are you two about?" a voice called from behind Fitzwilliam, which he knew to be his father's. He realised that he and George still had their arms around each other, and quickly let go of his friend and turned round to face his father, immediately becoming stiff and solemn.

"Gossiping and dawdling like a pair of girls," Mr Darcy tutted as he walked up to the boys, stick in hand, "Need I remind you that you are fifteen years of age now, Fitzwilliam?"

"No, sir."

"Then you had better remind yourself of it in future," he decreed, though not without kindness.

The white-haired man turned his attention to his godson, smiling benignly as he always did when something pleased him.

"How are you, my boy?" he asked George.

"Very well, thankyou sir," George replied, assuming that warm, genteel air that became him so well, and was so easy and natural for him to affect. Fitzwilliam could not understand how he did it.

"Good, good," said Mr Darcy, "Your father is out on the grounds at present, but he will be back shortly. He'll be glad to have you home for Christmas. I suggest you dress for dinner. I am sure that you and Fitzwilliam will have plenty to gossip about."

With this, he turned and walked back to the house. He always had been a man of few words, but he was strong and fair, and Fitzwilliam knew he was a good father.

George pulled a face.

"I suppose I _must_ dress for dinner," he sighed, once Mr Darcy was inside the house.

"Yes," Fitzwilliam replied gravely, "It would be an utter scandal if you did not."

The two set off towards the house.

"Would you ever be able to speak my name in public again?" George asked teasingly.

"I dare say I could _mention_ it."

George laughed.

"You know Will, I can never tell if you are entirely serious or merely in jest when you say such things," he observed as they entered the great hallway and started up the stairs.

"I - do not mean to cause offence," Fitzwilliam faltered.

"Oh, you _are_ a funny fellow. There's none like you in Highbury, though my cousins are a jolly lot. You should meet them someday."

"Perhaps I shall."

They reached the second landing, and passed Hannah, who looked somewhat worse for wear. She curtseyed to George, and looked in a less than civil manner at Fitzwilliam. He blushed profusely, and stared at his feet. This seemed to cause George much amusement, for when they were a little further up the stairs, he whispered in Fitzwilliam's ear: "What, dare I ask, was the manner of that peculiar greeting between you and the pretty young maid? I do hope there has been nothing of a romantic nature taking place whilst I was away?" He raised his eyebrows and gave his friend a knowing look. Fitzwilliam's dark eyes widened in shock at the suggestion.

"I - I can assure you that you would be entirely mistaken in that suggestion," he stammered, "I was so unfortunate as to knock Miss Lane over on my haste to get down the stairs upon your arrival."

George chuckled at the story, and put an arm round Fitzwilliam's shoulders.

"I should have guessed as much," he reflected, "You still have much to learn about love, I fear."

"And you do not?"

"Let us just say that I found my trip to Highbury most… illuminating," he replied, smiling mischievously.

"But George, Julia and Emma are but eleven and twelve years old," Fitzwilliam cried.

"I did not specify _them_ as the objects of my attentions."

The boys reached the top floor and made their way along the corridor to George's room, Fitzwilliam feeling quite shocked that his friend should be involved in any romantic tangle. He realised that he was even more jealous now; George must hate being in Pemberly with him when he could be off gallivanting with his cousins and who knew what other pretty young girls. George opened the door to his room, and Fitzwilliam went to leave him to dress, but George's arm was still round him, and he pulled him back.

"Don't go, Will."

He turned back to George, and they stood hesitantly in the doorway.

"I still have so much left to tell you," he explained.

"If you wish to inform me of your - amorous - conquests, then I regret to inform you that I take no interest in hearing of them," he said calmly, untangling himself from George's hold.

"I promise I will not mention it ever again," George said seriously.

"Faithfully?"

"Of course."

Fitzwilliam relented and went into George's room, seating himself on the edge of the bed, whilst his friend went to the wardrobe to search for something suitable to wear for dinner.

"We _must_ go ice-skating, Will," he insisted.

"Only if the lake freezes over."

"But it shall, and I will teach you how to skate. It is great fun."

Fitzwilliam made a non-committal noise as George pulled out a smart dark green jacket.

"I don't believe this is mine," he said.

"No, it was mine. But I outgrew it and my father suggested that you have it, if you like."

George pulled the jacket on and studied his handsome reflection in the large mirror that hung on his wall.

"I do like it. What say you, Will?"

He looked very handsome, Fitzwilliam had to admit. With his ebony hair and strong dark eyes, he could see why girls liked him. But it was not just his appearance that was attractive; it was his air, his way of speaking, his smooth manners. Fate had indeed blessed George Wickham.

"It becomes you."

"Then I shall wear it for dinner."

George looked at Fitzwilliam, noticing something.

"You know, I think you have a beard coming, Will."

Fitzwilliam shrugged, embarrassed.

"I - er, have not noticed."

George went over and sat next to him. He touched his cheek, checking to see if any hairs were growing on it.

"Yes, you do," he grinned.

Fitzwilliam smiled back at George. Then he noticed that he hadn't moved his hand away from his face. Strangely, he liked the feel of it. They stayed that way, in silence, for a while. Fitzwilliam leaned in to his friend's hand and closed his eyes, unsure of what this meant, but not able to prevent it from happening. He really had _missed_ George over the past month. Without thinking about what he was doing, he kissed his hand.

A knock at the door startled him, and he jerked away abruptly. Hannah was standing in the doorway; she curtseyed before saying: "If you please, young sirs, you are called for dinner." George smiled as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Thankyou. We shall be down presently."

The servant curtseyed again, leaving the room. Fitzwilliam avoided George's eyes.

"I suppose we had better go then," George said, after a moment.

His friend nodded slightly, preoccupied with the strangeness of what had just occurred. George edged closer to him.

"Will…"

But Fitzwilliam had already got up and made his way to the door.

"Come," he said stiffly, "We are wanted downstairs."

George, his face betraying disappointment, joined him and they went together, in silence, to dinner.

* * *

"You are very quiet this evening, Fitzwilliam," observed Mr Darcy as he took a sip of his wine, "Are you so low in spirits?"

It was the first time Fitzwilliam had been spoken to that evening. Throughout dinner, George had been so ready to talk about Highbury and his stay there that he had not been required to speak at all. He was glad of it; he had plenty to think about. His father's question roused him from his state of silent contemplation.

"No indeed, sir," he replied, "I was just listening to George's stories. Highbury sounds a most agreeable place."

"Then perhaps someday you could go there," Mr Wickham suggested kindly, "I am sure you and George would have a good time with his cousins; they are very well-bred boys and girls, all manners and politeness, and most genteel."

Fitzwilliam smiled weakly.

He avoided conversation all through dinner, and afterwards sat reading in the drawing-room whilst his father and Mr Wickham discussed politics, and George wrote a letter.

"Are you writing to your cousins?" Fitzwilliam asked eventually, "Are you already so displeased with Pemberly?"

"I am not at all displeased; it seems that certain others here do not desire _my_ company," he said pointedly.

Fitzwilliam quickly went back to his book, and remained in quiet study until his father and Mr Wickham decided that the boys had better go to bed.

He tried to avoid George, but the moment that they had left the drawing-room he caught him by the wrist.

"You promised me only today that you would never be serious and awkward with me, and already you have broken your word," he said indignantly.

"That was before."

"Before?"

"George, I do not know what your intentions towards me are, but let me inform you that I want no part in it."

"You did not say as much then."

Fitzwilliam swallowed, remembering all too clearly what he had done then.

"I - was not thinking straight; my mind was confused," he excused.

George nodded, his eyes full of resentment.

"So this is what you think," he surmised, "That this is all my design? That I intended for this to happen? For I most fervently deny it."

Fitzwilliam saw no lies in his friend's face, only a righteous anger that he had provoked. He sighed, softening a little.

"I can never be at odds with you for long, George."

George loosened his grip on his friend's wrist, sliding his hand into Fitzwilliam's. He felt his face grow hot, and looked down, but did not move his hand away. George slowly threaded their fingers together, so they were entwined.

"George, stop this," Fitzwilliam entreated, but his words were soft.

George took his other hand, pulling them closer together.

"George," Fitzwilliam repeated.

"I will stop," came the reply, "If you do not want this."

Fitzwilliam pulled his hands away.

"I do not."

He stepped back and ran as fast as he could up the stairs, to his room, away from George.

* * *

Fitzwilliam lay in bed, too wretched to move. The sunlight was streaming in through his windows on the frosty winter day. Snowflakes fluttered past his window. He didn't want to see them, or the view outside. It would remind him of the promise he had made to George to ice-skate with him. The promise he was going to break. And then there was the promise to never be formal and reserved with him. That had been abandoned, too. It was Christmas Eve. George had been home for just a week, and in that time, the mood between them had been suffocating. He hated it. George was his _friend_ – but did he want to be his _lover_? It made no sense at all. He sighed and rolled over.

Suddenly, the door was flung open, and Fitzwilliam sat up at once.

"Will, the lake's frozen over, and Father says we may skate on it."

It was George, standing in the doorway, bold as brass, as if everything was perfectly normal.

"George!" Fitzwilliam exclaimed, "What?"

"The lake, Will," George replied, "Ice-skating. You promised."

Fitzwilliam grunted.

"That was before…"

"That's what you said last time."

"Well, maybe I do not want there to be another 'last time'."

George went to the foot of the bed and held out his hand.

"Then come skating. Play like we always have done. It is Christmas tomorrow. Where's your festive cheer?"

Fitzwilliam thought about it, then took George's hand. He veritably _yanked_ him out of bed, and bade him dress as quickly as possible, dashing downstairs to sort out the skates. A few seconds after he had left the room, Fitzwilliam heard a young woman shriek, followed by a mumbled: "I do apologise, Miss Lane."

After he had dressed, Fitzwilliam went downstairs and donned his coat, scarf, hat and gloves. George was waiting for him, holding two pairs of skates.

"Your father had them," he explained as they walked to the edge of the frozen lake, "And I cannot think why we have not done this before."

Thick snow blanketed the ground and clung to the branches of trees. It curled over the sides of the roof and stuck to the chimneypots. It muffled every sound, every step they took, making everything full of emptiness. Fitzwilliam had never seen Pemberly covered in so much snow. It was a pretty sight. The lake's surface was no longer smooth with water, but with thick ice, like marble.

The boys put on their skates once they had reached it. George went onto the ice first, gliding out with lazy ease. Fitzwilliam, thinking it did not look too hard, stood up and confidently slid onto the lake. George, quite far away by now, started to skate towards him.

"You don't need any help, Will, do you?" he called.

"Of course not, George," Fitzwilliam replied arrogantly, "This is _easy_."

It was at that moment that he attempted a fast, smooth glide forwards… and fell flat on his back.

"Oof!" he cried as he hit the hard ice.

The light, merry sound of George's laughter rang out over the lake. Fitzwilliam could have sworn his back was broken.

"Honestly, George, I cannot think why you find this amusing," Fitzwilliam huffed as he sat up quickly, a little _too_ quickly as it turned out.

Fitzwilliam heard a loud crack – it was not the ice breaking, but his spine clicking back into position. He groaned.

George stood over him, grinning.

"Need a hand up?" he enquired.

Fitzwilliam snorted and tried to get back on his feet on his own. He pulled his right leg in position on the ice, but as he put his weight on it, he slipped, this time falling forwards onto his face. George laughed harder. Fitzwilliam could have sworn his nose was broken. He pushed himself into a sitting position on that horrible, cold, slimy ice, knowing that he was defeated. He sighed.

"George," he began.

"Yes, Will?"

"Would you be so kind as to lend me some assistance?" he asked, giving in.

"Why, certainly," agreed a smug George, pulling his friend back onto his feet.

Fitzwilliam fell against him, slipped again on the ice, and sent George sprawling on his back, landing in a heap on top of him. They stayed in a state of shock, spread-eagled on the frozen lake for a few seconds. George stared accusingly up at his friend, before Fitzwilliam muttered: "I do apologise, Mr Wickham."

George burst out laughing.

"You," said George, and continued chuckling.

His mirth was infectious. Soon Fitzwilliam had joined in with him, and then it was not long before they were both hooting loudly like children again, rolling over and over on the hard ice. Eventually they came to a halt, George smiling down at his friend.

"Do you see why ice-skating is such fun now?" he asked.

"Yes," came the reply, "I believe I do."

"Will…" George began.

"What?"

"Merry Christmas," he said, and kissed him.

"I have an objection."

"Not this again."

"No, this is different," Fitzwilliam explained.

"What?"

"Christmas is _tomorrow_," he replied.

George rolled his eyes, kissing him again. They stayed that way for quite some time.


End file.
